


I Volunteer

by FeralCreed



Category: Hunger Games - Fandom, Supernatural, Supernatural/Hunger Games crossover - Fandom
Genre: Brothers, Crossover, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester boys and their father have managed to survive in the outer district for years when a Reaping Day brings unwelcome news - one of the boys may be fighting for his life in the Arena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Volunteer

It hadn't been easy. Living in the outer districts was always hard, but without parents? Even worse. Then again, trouble had plagued the Winchester family for so long, nobody could remember much else. Just a year after her younger son's birth, Mary Winchester died in a tragic house fire. Her husband John had tried to save her but had failed. Young Dean had been the one who ran out into the road holding his baby brother Sam, yelling for help. By the time the neighbours had come to help, it was too late to do anything but drag the boys' father from the burning structure.

After that disastrous night, John had started drinking. Since his first bottle, he hadn't stopped, and Dean took on the patriarchal role he was too young to fully understand. Folks said “that little Winchester kid”, Sam, had turned out all right but agreed that he didn't have much of a chance to get out of his home district. With a drunkard father and troublemaker brother, he hardly presented a picture suitable to the delicate senses of Capitol inhabitants. Yet his intelligence and diligence were enough to ensure he had the best grades at the end of every school year, and he learned the practical side of life just as well.

Life wasn't much different when John Winchester was chosen as district representative for the eightieth installment of the Hunger Games. After the rebellion of the seventy-fifth games, it hadn't been long before President Coin was murdered and a Capitol-chosen leader again led the country. The punishment for the rebellion was severe: every fifth year, starting with the eightieth games, another envelope would be chosen from the box that had formerly been used only every twenty-five years. For the eightieth games, each district was represented by two chosen delegates: an adult that was unlikely to survive and the sixteen- to eighteen-year-old most likely to slaughter their way to freedom. While the teenagers killed each other, the adults were used as human shields or forgotten about. Most fell prey to tracker jackers, mutts, fireballs, or other dangers of the arena. John was the last adult left, as was a young woman from District 2. She died in a flash flood and John was the unwilling and unlikely winner.

John's turn in the arena had happened far in the past. Now it was the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games, and the Games hadn't held a threat for the brothers for a long time. They'd both passed the age limit years ago, and had no younger siblings to fear for. Along with the rest of their district, the day before Reaping Day they waited in the central square of their district to hear this year's twist on the usual bloodbath. Since John was a victor, and the envelope used for the seventy-fifth games was currently retired, he stayed at home with a bottle. Most of the citizens gathered in fearful anticipation had tormented themselves all night long, imaging worst-case scenarios in which they or their loved ones were murdered for sport.

As it turned out, few of the people standing in the square had anything to fear. The message inside this year's envelope had been sent to each district's governor, who would stand on the stage in the central plaza and read it on the large screens. The tributes' escort would arrive the next day with the paper slips for the two big glass bowls that had already been set up onstage. This year the message was brutal, even for a fifth-year envelope. “For this, the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games, the victors shall face a worse pain than they did twenty years ago. Their adult children will form the tribute pool, and each district that cannot produce an adult male or female tribute shall volunteer all members of that gender from one of the victor's families.” The governor folded the envelope, spoke a few short words of dismissal, and left the stage.

A collective sigh of relief left the lips of most in the plaza, quickly checked by shame. Gazes immediately found the stones beneath their feet or the sky overhead, and many families instantly left. Most of the victors' families stayed in the plaza, unwilling to either speak or leave. Dean Winchester was the first to move, placing his hand on his brother's back and guiding him from the plaza. He looked back only once, to glance at the large bowl which would hold his and his brother's names the next day, and an unfamiliar look of fear was in his eyes.

John was sitting at the kitchen table, bottle in hand, when his sons returned home.“So, what are they doing this time? It's not like they haven't screwed up our lives enough.” He took a long drink from the bottle and slammed the bottom of the now-empty vessel on the table. “What's the long face for? Tell me.”

“Victors' children,” Sam told him, one hand buried in his jeans pocket and the other gesturing vaguely. “The tribute pool will be made up of victors' kids.”

“Adult kids,” Dean added. “Whichever district can't put up an adult sacrifice has to put up 'all members of that gender' from a victor's family.” He picked up a bottle from the six-pack of beer sitting on the chair next to John, popping the top and setting it down on the old wood surface. “You can bet those damn Capitol reporters are going to spin all kinds of sad stories with this one.”

“Boys, I know I ain't been the best of fathers,” John said, staring at his two sons. “But this ain't no kind of thing to be joking about. What's this Game's fifth-year envelope?”

“What he told you,” Dean replied, popping the top off another beer and holding it out to Sam. “The tribute pool is going to be made up of victors' adult kids. Me. Sam. Neighbour's girl. Couple of others.”

“Thank God she's a girl,” Sam said quietly, taking the bottle.

“You know, Sammy, usually I would be saying that,” Dean remarked with a strained grin.

“Come on, Dean. This is serious. If she was like her other four brothers? We wouldn't have an adult female tribute and there's a good chance our district's female tributes would be those three little girls down the street and their mother.”

Dean's attempt at playfulness was gone now, and he seemed several years older than he had in the morning. “Yeah, Sammy, I know. We're pretty lucky, aren't we? If we were like the Calhouns three houses down, we'd be worrying about giving the Capitol both tributes.”

“Pretty lucky?” John repeated. “I could lose one of you boys.”

“Come on, Dad,” Sam protested. “With all the other kids from victors' families? The odds are against it.”

“And the odds were against a freak accident costing your mother her life, and us our home, when you were a baby.”

“They say lightning won't strike the same place twice, right?” Dean said, forcing another smile. “Come on. How much bad luck can one family have?”

“Don't tempt the fates, boy.”

“I'm not a boy any more, John. And it could be me risking my life in the arena for the sick, twisted pleasure of a bunch of dressed up freaks! You're not in danger, so just shut up!”

“Dean!” Sam yelled, the word coming out as a sharp, dog-like bark. “Stop. We'll be okay. Lightning, right? Never hits the same place twice.”

Four raps at the front door cut off any remark Dean might have wanted to make. Sam cast a glance at him, then his father, then sighed and went to answer the door. “Mr. Singer! Hi. I guess we should have expected you to come over. Come on in.”

“Dammit, boy, it's just Bobby. How many more times do I have to tell ya that?”

“Fine. Come on into the kitchen, Mr. Just Bobby, my dad and brother are in there.”

“I can only imagine the calm, family-oriented conversation you were just having.”

“Yeah, not quite.”

John had popped the top of another bottle while Sam was gone. He raised it in an attempt at a greeting. “Well, well, Singer. Been a while.”

“Heya, Bobby,” Dean said. “Glad to see you.”

“What the hell have you done to this place?” Bobby demanded. “It's a wreck. Even Rufus keeps his house cleaner.”

“I'm fine, thanks for asking,” John muttered. “Oh, except my boys might get picked to get killed tomorrow. So I'm not okay!”

“Dad, go sleep it off,” Dean ordered. “Bobby didn't come here to be attacked.” The three of them stood there silently as John left the kitchen, bottle firmly in hand, and climbed the staircase to his bedroom. “I'm sorry, Bobby. Usually he's more or less fine, but with Reaping Day and the fifth-year envelope...”

“No need to apologize, boy,” Bobby said, taking the chair John had just vacated. “I worked with your dad for a long time. If anyone besides you two boys can take him at his worst, it's me. Got another beer on you?”

Dean set his own drink down and reached for another bottle. “Right in my pocket. Here, Bobby.” The three of them tipped their bottles toward the center of the table and drank. “So what do you think of the envelope?”

“Female tribute's obvious. The male could be any young kid in the Victor's Village. Hell, could be that boy Victor. Wouldn't that be a piece of alliteration? Any one of you would have a chance at surviving against normal tributes, but I'd guess at least a few of the other tributes would have been trained in self-defense or something. Parent from the Arena would probably be a little paranoid in that respect. Any parent. Your dad took it a little differently.”

“He had more to deal with,” Sam said. “Chosen as least likely to survive? That alone is kind of hard to forgive.”

“Yeah. Still, I don't bet many adults in the Village up here are going to sleep much tonight. If you want my advice, don't wake your dad up if he manages to fall asleep. Odds are neither one of you will get picked and he wouldn't miss anything. And if you do get picked... it'd probably be for the best that he wasn't on the scene.”

“If something happens, Bobby, promise you'll take care of him,” Dean requested. “He ain't worth much to most people – look at the way he was chosen for his Games – but he's still our dad. Still worth something to me and Sam.”

“You think you gotta ask me to keep an eye on my oldest friend? Boy, I never thought you were stupid.”

“Sammy here might have gotten the good grades, but I'm no idiot.”

“No, you're just paranoid. Shut up about it and deal.” Bobby reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a deck of cards. “I've got my eye on you, card sharp. Play it by the rules.”

Several rounds of poker later, Bobby shuffled his hand into the rest of the deck and rapped it against the table to square it up. He tucked the deck back into the pocket it had come from and stood. “See you in the morning, boys.”

“Bye, Bobby,” Dean said.

“See you, Bobby,” Sam added. After a few minutes, he stood as well. “I'll see you in the morning, Dean. Don't worry about tomorrow. All three of us will be back here in this house.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean agreed. “See you in the morning, Sam.” He stayed seated at the table, turning the neck of his bottle between his fingers. The bottom of the bottle scraped against the table but he didn't seem to hear it. A couple hours later he finally left the kitchen, going up to his bedroom but getting no sleep.

In the morning, Dean and Sam browsed through the pantry for a light breakfast. Neither had the courage to stomach much in the way of food or company, and they let their father sleep off his alcohol as Bobby had suggested. After all, the odds were in their favour. Lightning never struck the same place twice.

Standing on the stage half an hour later, Dean wasn't so confident in the words he'd spoken the night before. All eligible tributes had been told to stand in two rows behind the bowl of male names. The rest of the district stood in the square before them, murmuring nervously amongst themselves. Unlike last year's Reaping Day, this year only a few families were nervous. The atmosphere was much more relaxed than when all families had been at risk of losing a child. Only one name was in the bowl for female tributes, and five for the male tributes.

The introductory video was short. It gave a brief, one-sided history of Panem, the last minute focusing on the consequences of the Mockingjay Rebellion and the graciousness of the Capitol in not destroying all of the rebel districts. At the conclusion, the Capitol escort for the district stepped up to the microphone. “Welcome, citizens!” she chirped in a too-high, too-enthusiastic, too-sweet voice. “I'm so glad you could all join me. This year's Hunger Games has quite the twist, hmm? Twenty years ago it was the victors themselves who formed the tribute pool. I suppose that now, just like then, we are reminded just how the mighty can fall. Well, let's draw from the ladies first, although I suppose you all know the name already. Small tribute pool, hmm?”

Everyone had known what the name would be. Crystal stepped forward even before her name was called, raising a fist in the air then laying it over her heart. She bowed formally to her family, returning to a standing position with a tear track running down her cheek. Then she stepped back and stood with her hands locked behind her back and her chin level with the ground. It was unlikely that her family would visit her in the brief moments before the train left – she had said her goodbyes the night before.

“All right, now it's time to draw a name from the pool of male tributes.” Her hand sank into the bowl of names, the fingertips closing on a piece of paper only to leave it, taking the handful of slips and letting them trickle back, finally withdrawing a name. She unfolded the paper slowly, each rustle of the paper picked up by the microphone in front of her. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hold in my hand the name of your district's eightieth male tribute to the Hunger Games.” In the silence, nobody dared to speak. Even the families who had never even visited the Victor's Village were tense. Dean glanced sideways but Sam didn't seem to notice, his face pale. “The male tribute's name is... Sam Winchester!”

Sam wasn't quite sure if he breathed in or out. He thought that he might have tried to do both at once. It couldn't have been his name that had been called. This had to have been a mistake. The Peacekeepers moved toward him and the other potential tributes were moving away from him so as not to get caught up in any potential fight. White helmets blocked his view of the crowd, of the sympathetic parents, of Bobby's stricken expression, of the few already turning to go.

Dean spoke in a low, clear voice. His words were even, measured. There was no tremor in his voice; he might have been remarking on the weather. It was obvious he'd planned his actions out far ahead of time, perhaps long before he was first old enough to even be present at Reaping Day with his brother.  
“I volunteer.”

Sam clenched his jaw, afraid for both his brother and himself. He had expected the words since he'd heard his name but had hoped he wouldn't hear them. “I refuse his volunteering,” he said, clutching at a hope that he could rectify the situation his brother had created.

“All right, now,” the escort said. “You're not allowed to refuse a volunteer. We weren't expecting this, hmm?” She turned to the crowd with a false smile, perhaps expecting agreement, but was met only with silence. “Let me present your district tributes for the eightieth Hunger Games – Crystal Wesson and Dean Winchester. Congratulations, tributes!”

 

Sam burst through the double doors into the small room, Bobby and John close behind him. “Dean, you can't.”

“Sammy, promise me you'll stay safe,” Dean said. “There's nothing you can do about this.”

The two brothers embraced, and though Sam was the taller of the two he looked younger than he ever had before. They broke apart but Sam stayed close by. “Dean, I'm scared,” he admitted. “I don't want to lose you, but...”

“But how am I gonna make it, right?” Dean managed a smile but couldn't force himself to laugh. “I was always the reckless family idiot. Guess I'll figure something out, right? Bobby will look after you. Bobby?”

“Of course, boy,” Bobby said. He moved forward and gave Dean a rough hug. “You really got yourself into a mess this time, haven't you? Good luck, Dean.”

“Yeah, I'll need it.”

John was the only one in the room who had not yet spoken. There was, for once since his Games, no trace of liquor on his person. “Dean, I... I don't know what to say.” Unlike his son's voice, his words seemed too fragile to be spoken. “I love you so much. And I'm so proud of your courage. You're so much like your mother and I've never told you. I'm sorry I've been a worthless father, but it's too late for words to be any good to you and I won't be able to do much for you while you're in the Games. But you better believe that I love you and I'm proud of you. It's not often that I look at a man and think this, but, Son, I wish I was a man more like you. And I promise, for you, and for your brother, that I'm gonna change. Whether you come back or not, Sammy ain't never gonna have to be ashamed of me again. I wish I didn't need a wake-up like today's to figure out that I needed to say this, but I hope you'll take it anyway. No matter what happens in that Arena, I will always love you and be proud of you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean growled, his voice strangely hoarse. He jerked his wrist across the corner of one eye and embraced his father. “Just take care of Sammy, Dad.” He looked his father in the eye and promised, “No matter what happens, as long as you do that I can forgive you. And I'll do my best to come back to you.”

“Yeah, you better, boy,” Bobby said. “If you leave me alone with these two? Somebody will get a hole in him.”

“Well, if I don't, Sammy here will stay on the right side of the law all his life. We can't have that, right?”

Sam managed to laugh. “Yeah, we sure can't.”

Two Peacekeepers entered the room and stood at either side of the door. “It's time to go,” one of them said.

“That's that, then,” Dean said. He shook hands with Bobby, John, and Sam. “I guess this is where I say something intelligent and memorable, but I'm all out of one-liners.” He blinked back the tears gathering in his eyes and nodded as if assured of something. “Yeah, you three are gonna be okay. I'll be back. Promise.” Without time for any other words of farewell, he was taken from the room, trying to keep his head held high.

**Author's Note:**

> Intended as a one-shot but may be expanded. Comments appreciated! <3


End file.
